On Teatime With Spinsters and Drowning Traditions
by Damaris Lliso
And Iāll tell you this much, the only reason why Iād ever go down to this rotting town full of the prim living past their prime is because I need to get away.
Chased out of town by some rabble-rousers who had it out for me, I swear, nothing ever stays quiet, even in a big city like Baltimore. Disproportionate retribution is what it wasāget into a few disagreements, a shouting match here and there, he said this and I did what? And suddenly they see it fit to back me into a corner so deep I had no choice but to turn my whole damn life upside down.
So now Iām here past the border separating us from them. It was well known to everyone that I never thought much of the folks down south, but hell, I figure they wouldnāt think much of me either, not with my skin or my mannerisms or my family filled to the brim with Union vets. Canāt help who I am, and if they refuse to see past that then I can give them just the same. But letās look at the positives: at least I managed to find work.
So Iām not expecting much. Iāll get what I get. I just came into town yesterday, and I still havenāt been out to see much. Donāt quite care to, only problem is work starts the day after tomorrow and I hardly know where the hell I am. Apparently where Iām to meet the others isnāt too far from where Iām staying now, but I know I gotta get to exploring this place sooner or later. Iād rather later, but Iāll do it now.
The world is damn bright outside, and mighty hot. The roads are dusty and hazy, enough to make a perfectly well man go blind, but I suppose Iām here to fix that now, arenāt I? Paving the roads and such. They donāt even have paved roads here! But Iām walking down now and folks are still giving me the eye. A few of them nod in acknowledgement and I nod back, but all the same, I have yet to feel too welcome. Beinā looked down upon by folks who aināt even got their roads paved, what a trip.
As I walk along, the road starts emptying out. Up in the distance thereās this big house you can tell once belonged to someone great, someone whose wealth was built upon the backs of others. I get closer and I see thereās this woman sitting up on the porch, all alone, looking out into nothināā¦ or maybe not, maybe sheās seeing it all. Who knows, Iām not inside her head.
But mother of God, is she a beaut. Gorgeous skin, wavy chestnut colored hair and a figure to die for, and Iām wondering wow, does she have a husband? But I already know the answer to that one, cause looker or not, itās obvious sheās just past her prime, maybe around her early thirties or so. Northern girls marry youngāSouthern belles, even younger. Sheās probably already popped out a few kids. Sheās probably on that porch right now waiting for her husband to come home from work. Sheās probably got a life wound up so tight that she wouldnāt ever give someone like me a second glance.
But it fees like hours that Iāve been starting at her like this, and occasionally sheāll turn her head up towards the sky and her lips will move, almost like sheās mumbling up something towards the sky. She bats her eyes like sheās half asleep, like her world is a dream and all of us, weāre nothing more that whatās in it. Her long, bony fingers reach up and she touches her collarbone real delicate. The wind rushes past her.
And sheās looking at me. Sheās looking at me and past me and she smiles in that dreamy way of hers. She drags her fingers through her hair.
Man, oh man, this broad. Sheāll be the end of me, mark my words.
Iāll admit it. I was wrong.
This town is a few types of alright! Everyone here knows everybody else and after work, they all love to follow me down to the bar. And all I gotta do to keep all eyes on me is start reminiscing about Baltimore. North or not, these are the types of folks you can tell have never been anywhere. They love hearing my stories.
Especially the younger guys! They crowd around me and hang off my every word, and some of them I can swear get a little too close, if you get what I mean. Not that I have any moral objections, but thatās what got me in trouble in the first place. When I came down here I told myself, as much as I would hate it, that Iād have to leave that life in another place and time. Well, they aināt makinā it easy, Iāll tell you that much.
So anytime one of those guys comes too close for comfort, I start thinking about that woman on the porch. Iāve asked around, and apparently her name is Emily. From what Iāve been told, she is as old as she looks, but joy oā joy! sheās never been married. Her old man died a couple of years ago, but while he was still alive, he didnāt let anyone so much as look at his daughter, let alone marry her. I figure her to still be a virgin, still filled with girlhood dreams. Seeing as sheās all alone in that huge house of hers, sheās probably been aching for some man to come and sweep her off her feet. Iāve come across spinsters before, and Iāll tell you, theyāre all the same.
So I leave her roses. Every night, late enough so that she has to be asleep, I sneak right on up and tape one to her door. I donāt know why I do it. I canāt be this girlās savior. Iāll never be the marrying type. But it canāt hurt to bring a little sunshine into someoneās life, right?
Tonight feels different.
I canāt quite put my finger on it, but somethingās off. The air feels different, not the same as always, and Iām trying to write it off but somehow, I just canāt. All day itās been like this. Maybe I just stood out too late last night. Yeah, that must be it. Maybe all I need it some rest. I tell the boys down at the bar that Iām leavinā early.
No, Homer, no. Donāt go, my temptations say.
But I tell āem, no boys, I gotta go. They all look so disappointed, but I try and ignore it. This creeping feeling, itās got a grip on me, and I swear if I donāt get some peace from it soon Iām likely to start screaming and crashinā around like a madman. Sure, theyād probably just write it off as me being a silly Northerner, but why would I willingly debase my region like that?
So I leave. I start walkin towards the direction of my place when I remember, damn. Emily. I gota leave a rose for her. Iāve made a habit of leaving her one every night for the past few weeks and if I stop, even for tonight only, I know itāll shatter her little heart. This is probably the most attention sheās gotten from a man in her whole life. I canāt just screw her over by now coming through.
I turn back around and start walking towards Emilyās house. The roads are dark and empty, and I can hardly see past my own two feet. I narrow my eyes, try to hone in my senses.
Iām getting close to that one house I always steal my roses from. This older widow with her little lady garden, she never even notices a thing. What she doesnāt know canāt hurt her, right? As Iām walking past, I snatch up a rose, never breaking stride. The thorns dig into my hand a little, but I ignore it.
Iām getting close to Emilyās door. Everythingās all dark, all her lights are out. It aināt even past 10 and sheās already asleep. Spinsters, sheesh. I get up to the front of her house and, since I got no tape with me, I pick up the doorknocker real gentle and place the rose there. I turn on my heel to leave.
āYouāre early tonight.ā
Damn, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of that. I turn my head up to where the sound came and thereās Emily, sticking her head out the window, leaning up against the frame.
She knew all along. She knew the whole damn time and wow, thatās as romantic as it is creepy.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. That creepinā feeling is stronger than ever. I think she may be smiling.
āWould you like some tea?ā she waits a moment for me to respond, before deciding for me. āIāll have Tobe make you some tea.ā
āYour husband?ā I ask, all stupid. I know damn well sheās never been married, whyād I ask that? But these southern broads, you know, they all have secret lives on the down low. Tobe could be her secret lover-man or something. But I couldnāt even get away with it up in the city; sheād have to have some backbreaking skill to hide something like that in a place like this.
Despite my speculation, I can almost feel her shaking her head. āHeās the help.ā
Heās the help? Heās the help! Joy oā joy!
āGive me a moment, Iāll be right down,ā she says.
Spinsters. How desperate can you get?
Emily is such a trip.
Silk hiding steel, thatās what she is. One hundred percent. She makes it a point not to hide what weāve got goinā on, doesnāt give any types of damns over it. Every Sunday, we go around town together and this is her, holding her head up high, her nose pointed up in the air like sheās looking down on everyone else instead of the other way around. I see the way folks look at us. Seeing us together, they canāt hardly stand it.
The boys down at work and at the bar, they ask me:
āWhat you doing with that old spinster, anyway?ā
āDonāt you know how strange she is?ā
āThereās a reason why sheās alone.ā
And I tell āem, none of your business, I know, and because her old man wouldnāt entertain the notion of his little girl growing up. Is that all, orā¦?
I know people talk to her, too, whisper in her ear even worse about me. She never wants to tell me exactly what they say to her, but what she fails to realize is Iām savvier than I let on. I know damn well what they say, that no matter which way they word it, it all leads back to the same deal: Iām from another world, and Iām no good for her. She doesnāt care, and hell, the idea of people talking about me doesnāt quite make me as mad as it should.
I guess you could say sheās my woman now. Always wanted one of those. I always gotta remind myself, women are special and they need a different type of treatment; I canāt go treating her like a man, it aināt right.
But I swear, she sure does treat me like a man would treat his broad. Sometimes. At least when it comes to all the gifts she gives me. I stole roses for her, and in return she gives me a buggy, along with a bunch of other things I could never hope to afford on my own. She tells me not to worry about it.
āMoney is no object,ā she tells me, with a wink. Her saying that makes me all warm and gets me riled up at the same time, itās the queerest thing.Ā Everything about her makes me topsy-turvy!
What gets to me the most is that she never wants me to leave.
Time marches on, and every day she gets more and more clingy. First, it started off with our Sunday drives: she told me she just wasnāt satisfied with only seeing me once a week anymore. To satisfy her, I started skipping out on going to the bar a few times a week so I could go visit her instead. But then a few times a week turned into every loving day of my goddamned life, and when it comes time for me to leave she yells at me to stay, stay, stay, sheāll miss me too much! I end up sleeping over more often than not, but then when I try and bed her she says no, no, sheās not like that. And thatās when I feel like throwing myself on the floor in frustration because this broad wants to have it her way, always.
She doesnāt seem to realize that I have a life of my own, too. Aināt like we married. Iām starting to think I might wanna leave, but something inside me whispers, you better not.
I may be in a bit over my head.
I go over to Emilyās, like always, but today is different. Sheās leaning against the door, her pretty little mouth twisted up into a bitter frown, and right soon as I get up to her she spares all greetings and says, āYou mustnāt come visit me for the next three days.ā
Joy oā joy! I finally get a break!
She explains further. āA few of my relatives will be visiting me, and I donāt want them seeing you here. If you think the town thinks ill of you for seeing me, ha! You donāt want to know how these women will view you.ā
She keeps talking, but Iām already thinking of how Iām gonna spend these next few days off.
āThe pavement gig is almost doneā¦ā one of the boyās grunts my way.
He keeps on talking, but I barely hear him. Todayās the last day of my vacation, and after two days prowlinā around town, chasing skirts, they decided we should take it slow on this last day. I suggested we go fishing, something I havenāt gotten to do since I was a boy. My old man used to take me. He made his living off of fishing, and thinking back Iām sure he was sick of the water and of tryinā to catch those damn things, but he always made time to take me out to his worksite whenever he had the odd day off. Weād wake up at three in the morning, get all our supplies up and ready, and then weād spend the whole day out on the open water. And on these trips, weād take the opportunity to bond and talk about life and its meaning and āwhy are we hereā and all that garbage that my lifeās since run out of room for. He made all that nonsense seem so important.
When I wasnāt no older than fourteen years old, he got into a physical scuffle with one of the guys he worked with, and the bastard knocked my pops one good on the side of the head, rendering him immobile. And thenāthenāthe son of a bitch couldnāt just leave it at that. He pushed him over the side of the boat. My old man couldnāt swim back to shore. They never found his body.
I wonder what it was like for him, drowning. He had to have seen the reaper coming, had to have known he couldnāt get out of it this time. He mustāve been terrified.
āYou listening, Homer?ā
āWhatād you say?ā
āSaid the pavement job is almost done. Where you headed off to after this?ā
āDonāt be stupid,ā another one of the boys answers. āHeās gettingā hitched with Emily āsoon as the job is done, aināt ya! Move into that olā haunted mansion of hers!ā he slaps my knee all jolly-like, and it takes everything in my heart, soul and mind not to punch him in the throat.
āBe quiet,ā I mumble instead.
āWhatās the matter? You arenāt thinking about leaving olā Emily, are you?ā
āPerhaps heās thinking of taking her up to Baltimore.ā
I shake my head. āIām aināt goinā back to Baltimore.ā
āNever?ā
āNever.ā I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. āKeep this between us, alright? Emily isā¦ God in heaven, how do I word this? Sheāsāā
āToo clingy?ā
āDriving you bonkers?ā
āClinically insane?ā
āTries to murder you every time you try anā leave āer house?ā
āCome now, boys,ā I grin, āI aināt dead yet.ā
āIf sheās really makinā you feel so down, just dump āer!ā
You better not.
āThatās right. You arenāt married, you donāt need to forsake your entire life for her. The decision is yours, whether or not to continue this relationship.ā
No, itās not.
I shake my instincts away. āYouāre right.ā I spit into the water. āI donāt owe Emily a damn thing!ā
One of the boys lets out this sad, ornery sounding laugh. āYou do owe her one thing. You ought to at least break up with her properly, and give her a decent goodbye.ā
I mull it over in my head. I proper breakup, a decent goodbye. I shrug. āSure, why the hell not?ā
Youāre going to wish you hadnāt done that.
Iām walking up to Emilyās front door, and Iām expecting to have to knock like I always do, like any decent man living in a sane world, when all of a sudden Emily comes rushing out. Broad nearly tackles me down with her bear-strength hug of death.
āHomer!ā she cries out, all dramatic. āI missed you!ā
I pat her on the back. The spinster aināt gonna make this one easy on me.
She drags me inside, leads me on and on until weāre in the living room. We sit down on one of the couches.
āTobe! Tobe!ā her man-servant comes shufflinā on in. āBring us some tea, will you? And brew Homerās with the special blend I made for him.ā
āRight away, Miss Grierson.ā
I raise an eyebrow. āSpecial blend?ā
She chuckles and waves me off a bit. āI remember how you told me your back was aching, so I bought some special herbs for you from the market. I donāt want to see you in pain, ever.ā
Oh, wow.
She gives me a quick peck on the lips. āHow did you spend the three days we were separated? Counting down the minutes, as I was?ā
I try and smile. I know it must look painful from her end. āI tried to occupy my mind. Spent some time with the boys and whatnotā¦ā
She frowned, and touched my shoulder. āAre you alright? Something on your mind?ā
I take a deep breathā
You. Better. Not.
āEmily, myā¦ my work here is almost doneā¦ā
She nods. āIām aware.ā
āAnd you know how it is for men like me. Once the job is done, I gotta get goinā to the next work site.ā
āI know. Soā¦ā she took a look around. āI suppose Iāll be able to carry a few of my things with me, perhaps sell the rest.ā She looked back at me. āDo you have at least a general idea of where weāll be headed?ā
āWhat.ā
āIāll need to let my relatives know,ā she goes on, like her entire plan is anywhere near okay. āTheyāll most likely disown me, but itāll be alright so long as weāre togethā.ā
āEmily!ā I shout. She stops talking, and now sheās looking at me with those eyes of hers. Damn, damn, damn. āYou aināt cominā with me. Iām going alone. Thisā¦ is where the road ends, for you and me.ā
Her bottom lip quivers a little. āPlease donāt,ā she whispers.
āDonāt make this any harder than itās gotta be.ā
āI want to marry you. I want to be with you forever.ā
āEmily, I aināt the marrying type. I canāt be your savior. You gotta let me go, for both our sakes.ā
She looks at me for a long time; it feels like hours and hours. Her eyes narrow, just the tiniest bit. Sheās looking at me and past me andā¦
Tobe comes in with the tea. āHereās yours, Miss Grierson,ā he places her mug in front of her, then turns to me. āAnd for you, Master Barron.ā
āThatās alright,ā I tell him, getting up from my seat. āI gotta get goinā anyway.ā
āPlease, Homer! At leastā¦ stay with me these last few moments. One final cup of tea.ā
Run run run run run run run ruā
āOkay. Just one.ā
She smiles in that sweet, wide way of hers and it almost makes me regret what I just did. But I tell myself, I did it for me. I own my life; I have the final say in what happens in it.
I take a sip. Itās bitter as hell. My lips pucker up and Emily laughs, despite the situation.
āDrink it all, sweetie.ā Who in the world ever called their ex sweetie? āThe herbalist told me the faster itās consumed, the stronger the effect.ā
āI never heard anything like that.ā
āTrust me.ā
I think about it. Trust her? Do I trust Emily? She may be clingy and strange as hell, but the girl never did anything that really sent me over the edge. I put the mug to my lips and take two large gulps, swallowing them down before the taste can get to me. She smiles and nods. Go on, go on.
Youāll get what you get.
Even as Iām finishing the tea, Iām startinā to feel a little off. Itās different from the creeping feelingā¦ no, no, this time, the world is definitely spinning.
I think Emily might be saying something, I can hear the sound of her voice but I canāt make outā¦ almostā¦ not quite. I try and take a step forward, heading for the door. If I can make it to the door, Iāve made it outside, and from there I can go anywhere. My life is mine. My life isā
I stumble forward and fall straight on my face. Emily is laughing, that I donāt need words for that. Thereās something different about her voice now. Itās higher than usual, way higher but more sinister. Almost squeaky. Wholly demonic.
I try and take a deep breath but woah, all I can feel is a rushing gurgle running through my chest. I take in about half the amount of air I need. I try again, and itās even harder, so I cough to get out whateverās got itself stuck in my chest. Is this what it feels like to drown? My visionās gone real blurry but I can still make out the bright, bright red of what comes out of my mouth. I try again. No improvement.
Someone turns me onto my back. I can make out her outline. Tall and willowy, with her gorgeous skin and wavy chestnut hair and a smile that could rip the skin off any living man. She cackles. Makes the same sound and jerking movement over and over and over and over and itās like my brain is a record gone broke. I try and scream, but all that comes out of my mouth is more of that warm liquid I know with all my soul is a bright ruby red. It trickles down the side of my cheek.
Was it worth it?
Another figure comes into my line of vision. Tobe. He takes my arms and starts dragging me away, past the hallway. I turn my head to the side, and thereās the door. Itās closed.
Youāll never know.
William Faukner’s āA Rose for Emilyā tells the story of a young southern woman in the early 20th century who, while leading a rather peculiar life, murders the man that she loves and keeps his body in her home for more than 40 years, in order to keep him with her forever. The story is told through the rarely used 2nd person narration (implied to be the collective voice of the community in which the woman lives). And while this offers a unique perspective to how the events of the story play out, it leaves just as many questions as it does answers, concerning both the titular Emily and Homer (the man that she murders). In order to shed some light on the two, for my retelling I chose to shift the narration from 2nd person objective to 1st person, from Homer Barronās point of view. Though the original story offers the perspective of the townspeople and sheds some light on what the opinion of the group can drive a young woman to do, this retelling provides both a possible explanation as to why Emily did what she did, as well as an insight into the relationship which existed between Emily and Homer.
Though the works differ in a number of ways, they both tie together similarly in a few key elements. One being the presence of dust: Emilyās home is described as being close off and dank āā¦they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighsā (Faukner); in the retelling, Homer observes that a layer of dust seems to have settled upon the entire town āThe roads are dusty and hazy, enough to make a perfectly well man go blindā¦ā. This transforms the house into a microcosm of the town at large. Emilyās home is dark, dank, dusty, and reeking of decay, while the town itself is not much better (though, the townspeople like to believe the contrary). Another example in which the retelling illuminates a specific detail of the original can be seen in the (rather ambiguous) line regarding Homers perceived preferences: āā¦Homer himself had remarkedāhe liked men,ā(Faulkner) which, though a modern lenses, hints to a sexual preference for the same gender. However, considering the time period in which the original was written, the line can be just as easily interpreted to mean that Homer simply preferred the plutonic companionship of men. Through my retelling, I chose to interpret the line through a modern lenses, not to disregard Faulknerās likely intention, but to bring forth a possible explanation as to why Homer is in the south in the first place: āEspecially the younger guys! They crowd around me and hang off my every word, and some of them I can swear get a little too close, if you get what I mean. Not that I have any moral objections, but thatās what got me in trouble in the first place.ā, the line implying that he did indeed pursue relationships with men, but was discovered and chased away from his community. One more important instance in which both the original and the retelling are the same comes from the buggy that Emily and Homer drive around in on Sundaysā. In the original, not much is said about it, but because the retelling is from Homers perspective, a possible explanation can be offered: āI stole roses for her, and in return she gives me a buggyā. This makes sense, as Homer, a day laborer and implied drifter, most likely wouldnāt have the money to splurge on much of anything, let alone a buggy.
Along with the similarities, several liberties have also been taken to allow for the story to be at itās most believable. One such instance is in how Homer and Emily first meet. It is never explicitly revealed in the original, because the style of narration prevents it. However, now from Homerās point of view, the narrator can say how they met with the utmost certainty āso I leave her roses. Every night, late enough so that she has to be asleep, I sneak right on up and tape one to her doorā¦ I turn my head up to where the sound came and thereās Emily, sticking her head out the window, leaning up against the frame. She knew all along.ā This scenario not only provides a possibility, but it also ties back in to the title of the story, adding just a but more to an already symbolically-packed title. Another instance in which the retelling takes some liberties is in Homer describing the way in which his father died: āHe pushed him over the side of the boat. My old man couldnāt swim back to shore; he died.ā Though Homers father isnāt mentioned in the original story at all and therefore has no significance in it, I wanted to tie his fatherās death back to his own, as they both do end up drowning (the father out at sea, the son in his own blood). And one last significant liberty which is taken the āvoicesā which Homer hears, his āintuitionā which serves to continuously warn him through the retelling (āYou better notā). The voices can be interpreted in any number of ways: theyāre Homerās conscious speaking to him, they could be audio hallucinations, or they could be of supernatural origin. The voices are there to foreshadow Homerās eventual demise.
Though both the original story āA Rose for Emilyā provided a work of insight into the workings of a broken southern town past its prime, this retelling provides insight into the workings behind the story which was so greatly influenced by the whims of society. In my efforts to retell the story, I tried to maintain a level of believability, a way for the two stories to be connected in a plausible way. But I also sought to create a level of separation, so that in this retelling, a new dimension could be added to the story proper.